


Diction

by IndridGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Azazel's Special Children, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, On Hiatus, Season/Series 02, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, demon!sam au, for real, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6579601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndridGrey/pseuds/IndridGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean. What a pleasant surprise.”</p>
<p>He whirled around to face the crossroads demon. It was wearing a fucking <i>tall</i> early-twenties business casual white male with girly hair. It had a smirk and vulpine eyes glinted black under the dim street light for a moment.</p>
<p>“Sorry, do I know you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossroad Blues

Dean patted the damp gravel over the box and straightened, glancing around. He’d never done this before and he didn’t have much time, how long until—

“Dean. What a pleasant surprise.”

He whirled around to face the crossroads demon. It was wearing a fucking _tall_ early-twenties business casual white male with girly hair. It had a smirk and vulpine eyes glinted black under the dim street light for a moment.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

The demon’s smirk widened like Dean had told a joke it had already known the punchline for. “I suppose that would be a bit of a stretch,” it said like it was conceding something. Demons continue to be vague, creepy assholes. What else is new.

They stood in silence for a moment, literal cricket noises, and Dean really should have planned out what to actually say because the demon was looking expectant and was not helpful at all. “So I, uh, thought we could talk in the car?” He gestured to the Impala and the demon glanced over at it with a weird expression before nodding. Dean led the way, making sure the demon was close behind. It followed him under the random-ass scaffolding that Dean had found and painted a devil's trap on and Dean prayed he’d done everything right, that the wood wasn’t too damp or rotten to hold up. He had a copy of Dad's exorcism in his jacket but he really hoped it didn’t come to that. He needed the demon to deal.

Dean stepped out from under the scaffolding and turned to see how screwed he was. The demon stopped short and looked up at the devil’s trap. Instead of relief that his plan had worked, a new wave of wariness washed over Dean when the demon just smiled slow and delighted, dimples full blast. Surely it should be at least a little miffed about being trapped.

“Oh, I _like_ you. Good pronunciation is a must for a hunter but this,” It was tall enough to trace the pattern a few inches away from the paint, “this is practically art. So many people rush through or are heavy handed but you…” The demon aimed the smile at him and the back of Dean’s neck prickled. “What can I do you for, Dean?”

“I’m guessing based on the pronunciation comment that you’re the one who talked with Evan Hudson a while ago. I want you to release him from his contract.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” the demon lied blithely.

“Let’s try again. Three weeks ago you nearly castrated him because he misread the summoning. Apparently you made him repeat it at knifepoint until he got it right.”

The smile turned wicked. “What can I say, I’m a purist; and lucky for him, he was a quick student, which can’t be said of all my clients. Besides, a simple castration will be the least of his worries in, oh,” the demon glanced at the watch on its wrist, “five minutes, give or take.”

Notimenotimenotimenotime—“Cancel the contract.”

“Y’know," it started speculatively, "I’d have thought that if you were going to try to negotiate anyone’s contract, it’d have been dear old Dad’s.” Dean drew a knife even though it was useless. “Daddy’s already facing the consequences of his actions and you’ve only got four and a half minutes to convince me before Evan joins him on the rack. Tick-tock, Dean.”

Dean reeled and his sight went slightly blurry. He knew demons lie but he’d been suspecting this the whole time, how he got better and Dad dropped dead. Fuck. His fist tightened around the handle of his knife until it creaked and the pain cleared his head a little. All his shit aside, he had a civilian to save.

The demon watched Dean struggling to regain his composure. It didn’t look so amused any more. “I’ll tell you what, though. This kill-Yellow-Eyes thing of yours? I want you to succeed. Not for the same reasons as you—I couldn’t give less of a shit about dead parents—but I have my own reasons for wanting to see the bastard dead.”

“Pray tell,” Dean growled out past his clenched jaw. Fucking demons.

“He’s got some plans I want to make sure never see fruition, is all. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.”

Notimenotimenotime. “So what do you want?”

Eyes flickered black again. “A deal: I’ll let Mr. and Mrs. live out the rest of their boring natural lives if you keep on Yellow Eyes’ trail like your life depends on it, because it _will_ , and tell me in advance if you’re going to attack. I’ll even help you out, check up on your progress now and then.”

Dean stared into middle distance at the ground, his mind going a mile a minute. He missed the demon stretching up to pop a rotting board out of place.

“And if you’re a really, really good boy, Dean,” He nearly had a heart attack when the demon’s quiet, menacing voice came from far closer than it should have. His head snapped up, eyes wide in shock, and the demon stepped slightly closer. “I’ll even see what I can do about Daddy.”  Dean's breathing became shorter.  There was no way there wasn’t a huge fucking catch on the other end of that, but Evan was about to die and basically the main deal was to keep the demon informed. Dean would figure something out.

“Okay.” Dean stared up at the demon, braced for impact, but the demon just stared back, amused again. Dean didn’t have time for this. “Seriously?”

The demon shrugged. “The decision is all yours, Dean. Sealed with a kiss.”

Motherfucking goddamn it Dean had to stand on his tiptoes and fist the demon’s dress shirt to anchor himself because of course this fuckface with the giant meatsuit wasn’t going to bend any to make this any easier. Fucking demons. Dean smashed his mouth against its and shoved away when it leaned down into Dean and started to wrap its arm around his waist like it was going to pull him closer. He scrubbed his mouth with his sleeve and glared at the snickering asshole. At least it hadn’t tasted like sulfur or been corpse-cold or something.

“Well? Is it done?”

“Yes. Just in time, too; good for you.”

Dean slumped a little and ran a hand over his face and neck. He sighed. “What now? I assume you’re going to be popping up whenever you feel like it, but how am I supposed to contact you—like, you specifically?”

“Give me your phone. And the paint you used for the trap, or your knife.” Dean handed his phone over, sheathed his knife, and went to grab the small paint can and cellophane-swaddled brush from the trunk because like fuck was he trusting the demon with a knife. Sure, it already had psychic abilities that could kill him but there was no sense in making it easier. The demon traded him his phone and there was a text draft saved with ingredients and an incantation. He looked up to find that the demon had removed its shirt and was painting a sigil over its frankly ridiculously chiseled torso. It finished and gestured. “Take a picture. Put lit candles on each point before the incantation and lighting up the ingredients.”

Great, now Dean had a picture of some poor, hot, (possibly dead) possessed guy on his phone with a demonic sigil painted on him.

The demon snatched his phone back, held out the paint and brush. It hummed in approval at the photo and started pushing buttons again. “I have a cell phone for topside. There.” It gave Dean his phone back and a chill went up Dean’s spine when he saw it had saved the contact as ‘Sammy’. No fucking way was he going to let it soil the name of his dead baby brother for him. (He absolutely was not going to dwell on his father's last words.)

“That’s not a very intimidating name.”

The demon shot him a grin before focusing on buttoning its shirt. Somehow the paint had already curled and peeled away onto the damp grass. “Which is why anyone who calls me that who’s weaker than me, besides you, will shortly find themselves scrabbling to put their bowels back in.”

 _Jesus_. “What’s so special about me?”

It finished the buttons with flair, still grinning. “Like I said, I like you.” Its demeanor shifted to menacing again and it crowded Dean back against the Impala. “Be that as it may, though, I expect flawless pronunciation and set up if you summon me. And, Dean,” it leaned down, oppressive and sinister, to whisper in his ear and Dean was absolutely not blank with terror. Nope. “If you try to trap me again, you will not like what happens.” It took a half step back and tugged Dean’s jacket straight with a bright, excited smile and a friendly pat. “Nice doing business with you. I’ll see you soon.” And before Dean could remember to reach for the exorcism, it was gone.

Dean melted back against the Impala. He was so fucked. The plan had always been to keep after Yellow-Eyes, but now he had basically signed up to have a demon for a project manager. Who would kill him if he didn’t do well enough, possibly by disembowelment. Dad would be so proud. And what the fuck kinda name was Sammy for a demon? He raised his phone, brought up the rename option, very deliberately typed out “creepy fuckface,” and hit enter.

Sometimes it’s the little things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually really like the idea of how this verse would work out: Sam knowing they're related and assuming Dean does, too; Sam still having a part in accidentally starting the Apocalypse and not wanting it to happen; Sam being the devil on Dean's shoulder and turning territorial when Cas shows up to be the angel; Dean being generally clueless that Sam's seduction is actually working until woah Sam's mouth is on his dick and yes why hadn't this happened sooner
> 
> Prompted by this but got a lot heavier than intended: http://thatpadaleckipayne.tumblr.com/post/139005237720/themegalosaurus-sam-you-huge-nerd


	2. Croatoan

A little over two weeks later, Dean was hauling ass away from a newly emptied town, still knee-deep in heebie-jeebies and figured there would be no better time to add some more. The demon had only said to contact it if he was going to attack but it also said it was going to help and it’d done jack all. The road was still eerily empty so he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt while scrolling through his contacts and calling Creepy Fuckface.

It rang twice and then “Scott, if you don’t stop this shit I’ll flay you my—“

Dean cut off the furious whisper, “Boyfriend troubles?”

He could almost hear the surprise and quick regrouping. “More like foster sibling. Why are you calling? You can’t possibly be ready to go after him.”

Dean barely held back a comment about disturbing lack of faith. “You know anything about this demon virus crap?”

“Ah.”

Ah? “Ah?!”

“Let’s just say…it’s part of those plans I mentioned about wanting to thwart. The ones that won’t go anywhere if you do what you’re supposed to.” Dean instinctively raised his other hand to placate the growled words and swore when Baby drifted a little too close to the other lane. Her wheels and/or alignment needed work, great.

“Calm down, I’m working on it! It might help a little if you actually told me what’s going on.”

“What, no one but Daddy Dearest can keep you on a need-to-know basis?” Dean’s jaw flexed so hard it hurt. If this bastard didn’t stop talking about his dad— “How did you learn about it? The test runs are supposed to be completely isolated incidents.”

Jesus, there were more towns like that one?  “Someone keeps sending me coordinates for me to go to. They're usually about the Psychic Kids, though.” He’d assumed they were more coordinates from Dad up until the one after Dad’s death, which led to him almost shooting himself in the head. Fun stuff.

There was a pause. “And you go to those coordinates.”

The fuck did the demon think he did for a living? “Well, yeah.” There was a weird, loud crackling noise from the other end.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” The demon screamed at him from the passenger’s seat and this time Baby went over lane dividers, Dean flinched so hard.

He slammed on the breaks, solidly on the wrong side of the highway, and gaped at the demon that was half-kneeling in the passenger’s seat, braced with its hands on the dash and benchback, breathing raggedly like it had just sprinted there (maybe it had, Dean didn’t really know how all that worked). Its general size and heaving fury made Baby feel claustrophobic for the first time in Dean’s life.

“You get mysterious coordinates that lead you to demonic psychic shit you should not be involved in and you’re just, like, ‘fuck it’?? ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Its face morphed into despairing exasperation and it stared out the windshield. “I’m surrounded by idiots. The only ones not fatally moronic are the ones I need dead,” it whispered to itself.

Dean’s heart was finally calming down from trying to break the sound barrier. “How the hell did you get in here?!”

The demon shot him a disdainful glance. “Not exactly warded, is it?”

“That might be changing,” Dean grumbled under his breath and holy fuck if Dean had thought the demon had looked furious before, that was no comparison to the wide-eyed snarl it turned on him now. His hands flew up in surrender again. “Kidding, kidding!” He could swear the temperature had just risen along with his blood pressure. Apparently warding was on par with trapping.

It took stock of its surroundings before actually sitting and running a hand through its hair. “Why are you on the wrong side of the road? Keep driving.”

Tsk, as if it wasn’t that jackass’ fault in the first place. Dean eased back over and waited until he’d reached a comfortable 80 before he glanced over at the brooding demon.

“Do you have any copies of these coordinates? Are they texts or notes or what?”

“Texts.” Aw, crap. It had grabbed his phone from where it had fallen on the bench between them and Dean would bet the screen was still on the call, “creepy fuckface” and all. Sure enough, the demon raised a dry glare up at him for a moment. It went to work on his phone and Dean sighed in relief that it was content with glaring. Situation defused, Dean found himself staring at it.

It was wearing the same meatsuit as last time but it looked radically different. Under the street light it had been sleek in a nice shirt and slacks but now in the grey sunlight it was in broken-in jeans and sneakers, a Stanford t-shirt, an unzipped hoodie, and a canvas jacket. It looked just like a normal college student. That crinkle between its eyebrows could have been from worrying about finals rather than figuring out demonic plots. Christ, this kid had probably had a girlfriend, a bright future, a family that loved him. Did the demon just up and walk away; were there missing posters out there somewhere?

“Who are you wearing?” slipped out before Dean could catch himself.

The demon wasn’t really paying attention, though, and muttered out something about Wally World which was absolutely not what Dean had meant.

“These coordinates, did they all involve psychics around my age?”

Working on the assumption that Dad hadn’t sent anything related to Yellow Eyes… “Uh, most. At least one was a family with young kids who had moved into our old house.”

It looked up at him in surprise. “What happened?”

“My,” Dean licked his lips, suddenly nervous in a way he would have been with an actual human. “My mom was there.” A look strangely like hurt flickered over the demon’s face. It had said before that it didn’t care about dead parents, which implied that Yellow Eyes had killed its parents too. Maybe even as a demon it sometimes felt the ache Dean did when others mentioned their mom. “She was on fire, just like the night she died, and she was protecting the family from a poltergeist and she. She told me she was sorry.”

“What for?”

Dean shrugged.

The demon was staring out the windshield again, far away.

“So, when you told me not to worry about all this…”

It huffed and its mouth twitched up. “Apparently you were already involved and that had somehow been kept from me.” It shook out of its daze and focused on Dean’s phone again. “I think I know who’s been sending these but I don’t know why. They’ve probably been watching you, so they might already know about our arrangement. If they don’t, they’ll figure it out soon and either way I’m well past fucked. I need to find the rest of them.”

“The rest of who?”

“The other Special Children.”

‘Other’? Wait— Dean almost slammed on his breaks again. “You’re one of them?!”

It looked over at him and cocked its head with an expression like Dean was exceptionally slow. Pretentious fuck.

“Why are you a demon? The others I’ve met weren’t.”

Its mouth curved in a sardonic smirk. “Being raised on a steady diet of farm-fresh demon blood by one of Hell’s oldest and strongest will do that to you.”

Oh, _gross_. “What? Who?”

The looks just kept upping in incredulous condescension. “Yellow Eyes.”

Now Dean did slam on the breaks. The demon braced itself on the dash and glared at him. “Are you always this bad a driver?” Dean ignored it and aimed the gun usually stashed under the bench seat at its face. Its eyes flashed black but it was smirking. They both knew it was a pointless threat but Dean didn’t give a fuck.

“You’re his kid??”

“What the fuck are you talking about, of course not! ‘Foster’ family, you imbecile.”

“That’s still family! Do you actually want him dead?”

“Of course I do.” And the demon was back to growling. “I’m his star pupil, his golden boy, which means I’m most likely to survive this shitstorm that’s about to start but the things he has lined up for me—I am _not_ letting him do that to me.”

Dean lowered his gun. “What are these plans again?”

It relaxed back into the seat. “That’s where the need-to-know basis kicks in. You’re a part of them somewhere, but I’m pretty sure you’re not Special. So this first part—the part we need to stop—shouldn’t affect you too much. That and me needing a relatively competent human is why I need your help.”

“I thought you were helping me?” Dean’s mouth curled up a little despite himself.

The demon gave him a dry look. “Fuck you.”

Dean didn’t quite manage to stop his mouth this time, “Psh, you wish.”

And there was that persona from the crossroads: amusement shining through intense eyes and a grin, only now all languid and lush with salacious promise. Dean’s grip on his gun tightened as his heart started hammering again and goosebumps radiated out from between his shoulder blades, warning him of a predator nearby _as if he didn’t know_. Dean had not anticipated this. Not good. This would have been a great “now for something completely different” moment except that would mean a new conversation which would keep the demon in the car longer. Not fucking happening.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, pretended his voice hadn’t broken, and fixed his gaze on the road. He could see it grinning wider in his peripheral; probably reveling in his discomfort. Fucking demons. “I have a friend who’s tracking omens and stuff; he should be able to get information on Special Children if I can give him parameters or names. There’ll be hunters, though, so you can’t exactly come with. If you have info, you can text it to me to give him.”

It chuckled and dropped Dean’s phone back on the bench seat between them. “Alright; I have another brother to hunt down either way. Call me with what they find—no voice mail, though.” It smacked a (fucking huge) hand onto Dean’s chest. “If you get another set of coordinates, call me,” it enunciated. “And be careful. Most of the other Specials aren’t demons but they’re still dangerous and you’re no use to me dead.”

“I’ve managed pretty fine so far, y’know.”

It gave him a Look. “No you haven’t,” it said matter-of-factly. And then it was gone.

Fuck.

Dean stared at the now-empty passenger’s seat for a few moments before he guided the Impala onto the shoulder and put her in park. A few more moments of unfocused staring at the steering wheel and a ragged sob shuddered out from his core. In seconds his throat was aching and his cheeks were wet with slow tears.

He should have shot his father when ordered—begged—to. If he’d done that, none of this shit would be happening. Yellow Eyes would be dead, the Special Children wouldn’t have a leader, Dean wouldn’t be working with a demon, Dean would have died like he was supposed to, his dad wouldn’t have sold his soul and wouldn’t be in—in _Hell_ right now being fucking _tortured_ because his selfish, useless son couldn’t do a goddamn thing right. And was now wallowing in self-pity.

Dean raised his arm to wipe his face but stopped and dropped it. He deserved to feel the salty tracks, be reminded of how pathetic he was. The only redemption possible was finishing his father’s mission. He was going to kill Yellow Eyes, no matter what it took, even if it was literally the last thing he did.

He took in a deep, shaky inhale and shifted Baby into drive on the exhale. He had a day and a half of driving to do; once he got the info, he’d call Ash to get to work on it.

Like it’d been waiting for a queue, his phone lit up with a text from ‘Master’. That fucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support to continue! I'm excited!! The next chapter will be considerably longer so may take a while. Comments make my day and concrit is always welcome!


	3. Hunted, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not really sure what I’m getting closer to. Seems most of the Specials are ending up in the ground.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super many thanks to shantiballecter for beta'ing! ~ <3

Ellen wasn’t at the bar when Dean entered the Roadhouse, so he went straight back to Ash’s room.  The sign was set to ‘in,’ so he knocked.  “You decent in there, Doctor?”

“What’s it to you,” was shouted back.

“Gotta talk to you.”

The door cracked open and, this time, Dean knew to keep his eyes firmly on Ash’s.

“Oh, right.  Yeah, gimme a minute. ”

Dean pointed his thumb behind him.  “I’ll be at the bar.”

Ash ticked his head up slightly in acknowledgement.  “Pants.”

“Thanks.”

Dean tried to be subtle about scoping out the main room on his way to the bar, which was a little silly considering there was very little that got past a crowd of hunters.  Which frankly made him nervous about discussing all this at the bar but whatever.  He trusted Ellen to help him out if shit went south.

He settled on a stool near the entrance, his back to it.  If anything suspicious entered, the others would react just as quickly as he could, and there were more potential threats sitting in the room than could enter at one time.  Plus the entrance was the only thing near him—no games or kitchen doors or bathrooms at which to loiter.  He scanned the room again; definitely no one he knew, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know who he was.  Despite the crowd, Dean was relaxed by the familiar environment, blood-beer smell and bad music and all.

Ash ambled up, grungy cut-off shirt and shorts like usual, and dropped a couple papers on the bar with a flourish.

“So, you got a new source I should be jealous of?”

Dean’s mouth twitched up.  He really did like Ash.  “Someone on the inside who wants this demon as dead as I do.”

Ash didn’t look entirely convinced, but he shrugged and hopped on a stool.  “Right on. Okay.”  He bobbed his head and spread the papers out some.  “Four folks fit the parameters nationwide—born in ’83, mother died in a nursery fire, the whole shebang: Sam Winchester, from Lawrence, Kansas, ‘buried’ in Greenville, Illinois,” Ash peeked a sympathetic glance at him before continuing, “Max Miller from Saginaw, Michigan, cremated; Andrew Gallagher from and buried in Guthrie, Oklahoma; and Scott Carey.”

“He was on the list.”

“Yeah,” Ash leaned back and rubbed his chin.  “Something weird going on with him.  Mom died in a nursery fire and, as far as I can tell, so did he.  Drops completely off the map—no foster system, school, DMV, criminal, or credit records that I can find—until about a month ago.  He’s renting an apartment in Lafayette, Indiana now.”

“You get an address?”

“Yeah.”  Ash tapped one of the papers.  “Now, for the others on the list of known names: Lily Baker appears to be a hermit in the middle of San Diego—got an address for her, too—and Jake Talley is currently serving in Afghanistan.  Military records are too unreliable to be worth trying to pinpoint where exactly.  All the rest have died pretty recently: a whole bunch of accidents, suicides, and homicides with no suspects.  A few hadn’t even hit double digits yet.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Ellen emerged from the kitchen and headed over when they caught her eye.  Dean pulled his wallet out.

“Hey, Dean.  You’re up early, Ash.”

“Hey, Ellen.”  Dean slid her $40.  “Towards Ash’s tab.”

Ellen scoffed good-naturedly and Ash clapped Dean on the shoulder.  “And here I thought I was just a typing ass-monkey.  Knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Dean shrugged Ash’s hand off with a brief but genuine grin.  He turned to Ellen as he tucked his wallet away.  “Where’s Jo?”

“Couldn’t tell you.  After that job you two worked, she decided she was going to keep at it.  I said ‘not under my roof’ and she said ‘fine.’  She sends postcards every now and again.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Ellen.”

She shook her head with a sad smile.  “Not your fault, Dean.  It’ve happened sooner or later.”  She let out a little sigh and gestured to the papers.  “You getting closer?”

“Not really sure what I’m getting closer to.  Seems most of the Specials are ending up in the ground.”

“So no leads?”

“Maybe a couple.”

“You headed out, then?”

“No rest for the wicked.”

Ash gave a quiet “amen” and handed the papers to Dean.  Dean smiled his thanks and turned to salute a goodbye to Ellen.

“I’ll see you around.”

“Be careful, Dean, y’hear?  People are starting to catch on that something big’s happening.  Don’t get caught in the middle.”

Oh, that ship had fucking sailed.  “Yes ma’am.”

* * *

Dean waited until he was two towns away to pull over.  Could never be too careful with hunters.

Most of the information for the known names consisted of birth and death dates and what had been done with the remains.  The eight-year-olds had been twins; supposedly both broke their necks by falling out of their treehouse.  The nine-year-old had been run over.  Half a dozen teenagers had committed suicide or been killed by car collisions.  Odd thing was they seemed to be dying in order of age, youngest first and then homing in on those around the age of the Specials Dean had met.

He turned to the page of those who met the parameters and, right on the top: Samuel Winchester.  The only time Dean had been to Greenville, Illinois, he had still been too young to fully comprehend the pair of headstones, even less so that there wasn’t even anything to bury.

And that was what it boiled down to: his mom and dad and baby brother were a few fistfuls of ash spread by the four winds all because of some yellow-eyed motherfucker.  Dean still had no idea what the fuck was going on with the Specials, but Yellow Eyes had obviously invested energy in whatever the plan was, and Dean would love to see it blow up in his face right before Dean shoots him in it.

Dean opened his contacts and called the first entry.  If asked, the asterisk was a space holder; really, it was a symbol for asshole.

“You find Scott?  Any of the others alive?”  Honestly, was it allergic to answering the phone like a normal person?  Maybe that was too polite for demons.

“Hello to you, too.  Scott’s in Layfette, Indiana.  Two others are alive—Lily in San Diego and Jake serving in Afghanistan.”

It hissed.  “That’s it?”

“Yeah.  And I don’t know if it means anything, but it looks like they’re dying in order of age.”

“Easier to kill those who haven't come into their powers yet.”

“Some of them were still kids!”

“Spared them the pain of adolescence, then,” it retorted, cavalier.  “What’s the street address for Scott and how soon can you be there?”

Dean ground a hand across his face.  Did the math.  Reported.

“I’ll meet you there.  If you’re more than 10 minutes late I’ll come looking for you.”

Dean gave a dull grunt in acknowledgment.  There was a loaded pause from the other side before it hung up.  Dean tossed his phone on the seat and rolled his shoulders back with a deep breath.

Fucking demons.

* * *

Dean patted down his pockets and swept his gaze across the motel room again.  No, he definitely had everything he needed, _and_ he still had time to grab some breakfast on the way over to the apartment.

He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket to grab his keys and startled when there was sudden, loud, urgent knocking at the door four feet away.  Ingrained instinct kicked in, and in a split second he had his gun aimed at five feet up the center of the door.  Knocking like that usually came from a witness, but Dean hadn’t spoken to any witnesses.  Police would be less frantic sounding, and the demon would probably just shout at him or some shit.  So who the fuck was at his door?

“Hello?!”

A strained woman was at his door, apparently.  The door didn’t have a peephole, so he whipped it open, keeping his gun steady.  “Who are you?”

The woman (young, brunette, jumpy as hell) flinched hard and put her hands up when she saw the gun.  Wide, teary eyes pleaded at him.  “Please! You’re in danger!”

“And how would you know that?”

“I—I keep dreaming about it, okay?  You just gotta trust me.”  Her voice cracked and she lowered her hands in a helpless gesture.

Dean lowered his gun.  “Dreams about me?”

She nodded frantically.

He glanced around behind her, took in her cute clothes and the purse pinned between her arm and her side.  She was definitely around the right age to be a surviving Special.  Even if she wasn’t a Special, he didn’t like the idea that some random psychic was dreaming about him.  Meant he was important somehow, which was never good.

He stepped back to let her in, but she just flicked her gaze behind him and back and licked her lips nervously.

“Um, do you mind if we go to a restaurant or park or something instead?  I mean, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but my dreams also involve you killing people-shaped things,” her pitch rose like she wasn’t 100% convinced they were only people- _shaped_ , “and a girl can never be too careful, y’know?”

He tucked his gun back in his waistband and jerked his head towards the diner a few blocks away.  “That work for you?”

She glanced him over skittishly before peeking behind her.  “Um, yeah.”

“Go on ahead, I’ll be right there.”

Her hands fluttered and she nodded before turning to head over.

Dean waited until she was out of earshot before he pulled out his phone and called *.  At this rate, he might as well add the asshole to his speed dial.  As the call rang out, he watched the woman glancing around nervously the whole time it took her to reach the diner.  What the hell was she dreaming about that had her about to jump out of her skin?

His stomach clenched a little when the phone went to voicemail:  _You’ve reached Sam.  I’m not able to answer right now so you know what to do_.  For once a demon being vague made sense.  He tucked his phone away without leaving a message.  It was going to pop up if he was late anyways.

The woman had chosen a booth right near the entrance with a clear view of the parking lot.

“Are you expecting someone to follow you?”  Dean scanned the diner and the parking lot as he slid into his side of the booth.

“Not really?  I don’t know,” she whined.  She shoved her hands through her hair and huffed.

A waitress came over and looked distinctly displeased when they both ordered “just coffee”.  The woman tracked her path to another table before whipping around to face Dean.

“Okay, look.  I know how all this sounds, but I am not insane and I am not on drugs.  I’m guessing based on what I’ve seen in the dreams that you know that?  I hope you do because I have no clue what’s happening!  I’m supposed to be normal!  I’m getting married in eight weeks!  I’m supposed to be at home addressing invitations, which I am _way_ behind on, by the way; I don’t have time to go insane, okay!”

“Calm down, alright? What’s your name?”

“Ava.”

Not on either of the lists, then.  “Ava…?”

“Wilson.  Ava Wilson.”

“Okay, Ava, I’m Dean Winchester, although you might have already know that, huh?”  He smiled a little, but she still just looked freaked.  “So let me guess: about a year ago you started getting killer headaches and then these dreams?”  She nodded.  “And they’ve been coming true.”  She nodded, looking about ready to cry.

Dean pushed the napkin dispenser closer to her just in case.

“I don’t know if I’m relieved or more freaked out that you’re really real and not surprised by any of this.”

“Well, you’ve seen it, right?  This is kinda what I do for a living.”

“Which is so fucked up, by the way!”  She squeaked.

He smiled.  “You get used to it.”

She scrunched her nose in a clear expression of not wanting to have to get used to it.  His smile dropped.  Their waitress deposited their coffees and was already turned away again when they said thanks.

Dean took a sip of his coffee—sweet lord yes it was strong.  “So how did you find me?”

“Oh,” Ava sniffed and pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and slid it to him.  It was a sketch of the motel sign.  “I saw this in the dream and the guy at the front desk told me which room.  Not very secure.”

“Occupational hazards,” he murmured.  He looked up at her and held eye contact.  “So here’s the thing: you’re not the only one going through this kind of thing.”

“There are other people having messed up premonition nightmares?”

“I don’t know about premonitions, but there’re other psychics, yeah.”

“Why?  Why is this happening?”

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.  I’m after something that’s involved in all this.”

“What?”

Dean stared at her, gauging.  She would have been even more freaked out if she’d been talking to Yellow Eyes in her dreams like Ansem.  “Doesn’t matter.  If you’re not already more involved in this, maybe they lost track of you or something.”

She blinked owlishly.  “Well, that’d be good, right?”

Dean nodded and sighed.  “So what’s this dream?”

She wrapped her hands around her mug and leaned forward.  “Okay, so, like, you’re tied up in a chair and there’s this—this black guy,” she whispered “black” like it was a bad word, and Dean wondered how sheltered this girl could possibly be, “and he’s got a book and a knife and then this really tall guy walks in and I swear to god his eyes turn black and either way there’s no way that ends well for you, right?”

Well that sounded like the demon, which was weirdly reassuring.  Better the devil you know or whatever.

“Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

She threw herself backwards and flicked her arms up in impatience.  “Oh, color me reassured!  You’re _tied up_!”

“Let me worry about it, Ava.”  He shifted and pulled the papers and his wallet out of his back pocket.  He slid the papers over like she had done with her sketch and tucked a five dollar bill under the napkin dispenser for the coffee.  “Do you recognize any of those names?”

She scanned the pages without a flicker of recognition.  Great.

She slid them back over and was newly nervous when she met his eye.  “No.  Why are you asking me if I recognize a bunch of dead people?”  Dean very deliberately folded the pages and returned them to his pocket along with his wallet.  “Dean? Am I going to die?”

Crap.  “No!  No, Ava; like I said, if you haven’t been dragged into this already maybe you won’t be.  And hopefully I’ll get all this taken care of soon, okay?”

She wasn’t reassured.  “You’re not even going to try to avoid my dream, are you?  You’re trying to get yourself killed.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “I keep telling you, I can handle myself.”

She opened her mouth to argue back but Dean’s phone piped up before she could say anything.  Dean angled it towards him—an asterisk.

“Shit.  I gotta take this, okay?  I’ll be right back.”  He got up and jogged outside before answering.  “Hey—”

“I’m at Scott’s apartment building.  There’s warding keeping me out, so my mostly-competent human would come in handy right about now, where the fuck are you?”

“Hey, I tried to call you, okay?  This chick found me at the motel—apparently she’s been having premonitions about me dying or something.  She didn’t turn up for the parameters, and she wasn’t on your list, either.”  Dean kicked at the gravel under foot and wondered if there was something wrong with the demon’s phone that caused the unusually long pauses.

“Describe her.”

“Like, early twenties, brunette, kinda looks like a human version of a chipmunk, name’s Ava.”

“Mother—” that weird static-cackle noise and Dean barely jumped when the demon was suddenly shouting next to him.  “FUCKER!”  It whirled around.  “Where is she?!”

Dean turned to point at their booth inside just in time to see Ava grinning at the demon, blowing a kiss with a wink, and then _fucking_ _disappearing_.

“What the fuck?”

“That fucking bitch.  What did she say to you?”  The demon was striding towards the door and Dean barely caught up with it before the door closed.

“Like I said, premonitions—”

It swore in a language that Dean didn’t understand and picked up a napkin that hadn’t been there when Dean had left.  Dean leaned over into the demon’s side to read it.  In exactly the kind of loopy, cheerful handwriting he’d expect from someone acting like Ava:

_You should keep a closer eye on your pets, Sammy—I could have done anything I wanted to Deanie Weenie.  See you soon!! – A xoxo_

A chill seeped through Dean’s insides.  The demon had warned him that not _all_ Specials were demons, which meant that there were others that were and Dean hadn’t even suspected.  Of course she hadn’t wanted to come into the room, she couldn’t pass the salt line.

This demon was seething again.  Dean was finding it harder and harder to remember the cool menace of when they’d first met because apparently everything involving Yellow Eyes and the Specials just spectacularly pissed it off.  Maybe it was scared.

It turned to him and, for a split second, Dean was horrified by the idea that it could read his mind, but it wasn’t nearly as harsh when it grabbed his arm as expected.  “We’re going.”

And then Dean’s eyes stopped working and the static noise he’d heard over the phone roared in his ears and jarred his bones.  He barely had time to register it before he found himself on a sidewalk in front of an apartment building.  He bent over and wheezed for breath, holding onto the demon’s arm for balance.  He might throw up.

“You’re being a bit dramatic.”

“The fuck,” wheeze, “I am.”

“Get a grip, Dean; I need you to take out the proofing _now_.”  It shook a can of spray paint in front of him with enough urgency that Dean almost spit the dramatic line back at it.

Dean heaved one more big breath before straightening and snatching the paint.  “What does it look like?”

“Kinda hard to miss.  There’s one on the underside of the porch roof—like yours, although not nearly as skillfully done,” it said in a tone a voice that made Dean pretty fucking sure that the bastard was actually _flirting_ with him.  In the middle of all this—talk about inappropriate timing, Christ.  “There’s probably another just inside the door.  I’ll be right behind you.”

Dean started walking and ignored just how closely the demon was following.  “And why can’t you do this yourself?”

“I probably could, but there’s a chance I’d get trapped, even momentarily.  Either way it’d be distracting, and I don’t know if Scott’s powers work on me and don’t care to find out.”

“That seems like something important to know, why don’t you know?”

“He never had the balls.”  It watched Dean stretch up to spray a line through the trap—a different kind than Dean had ever seen before; he wondered if there was an important difference between them.  “Granted, if it had worked I would have skinned his hands.  Which is actually what I plan to do today if I don’t like his answer for why he ran away.”

Dean had so many questions.

“What is his power?”  Seemed like a solid start because that was most relevant to Dean not dying.  If it was more mind control bullshit then the demon was shit outta luck because Dean was getting the fuck out of there.  The front door was unlocked—were apartment buildings supposed to be unlocked?

“He can electrocute whatever he puts his hands on.”

Ah.  That explained why the hands specifically, at least.

Dean sprayed a line through the trap that was, as the demon had predicted, a few feet inside, on the ceiling where a hallway and a staircase converged.  It was actually a pretty nice place, and Dean wondered how the hell Scott had pulled off getting occult symbolism to be part of the décor.

“Do you smell that?”

“I smell spray paint.”

“No, that’s definitely—up the stairs, go!”  It shoved Dean onto the staircase and reappeared at the top and paced while Dean sprinted up, impatient bastard.  “Nothing this side of the door, go in and cross out anything else.”  It pointed at the door on the left.  Dean spared the demon a mild glare before knocking on the door.  “Don’t bother; he’s already dead or as good as.”

Dean frowned at it and opened the door.  Now he could smell it: blood and sulfur.  But how did another demon get in when this one had to get him to cancel things out?  Nothing on the back of the door or the ceiling.  The demon watched him kick up the rugs before entering.  Dean glanced around again and saw it.

“There’s a gap in the salt line at the window.”

The demon pushed him into the bedroom and Dean scanned the door and walls and found Scott on the ceiling.  Dean stopped breathing and old, consuming fear lanced through him; the spray paint hit the floor.  It was just like his dad had described: bleeding across the stomach and sprawled helpless and still (barely) alive.  The demon came up behind him and swore.

“Out, out!”  It shoved Dean past the bedroom doorjamb a split second before Scott went up in flames.  Dean barely registered that it was dragging him out of the apartment with a painfully tight grip on his bicep.  It closed the door behind them, like that would actually hamper a demonic inferno from spreading to the hallway.  The fire alarm blaring made Dean jump and snap out of it.  He glanced around.  The building had three levels, at least eight apartments on each level, did he have time—

“We have to get people out of here.”

“The fire alarm’s going off; anyone too stupid or slow to get out isn’t worth it.  Where's Lily?”

“What?  There could be kids home alone!”  Dean was already jogging to the end of the hall, banging on doors as he went.

“Do I look like I give a shit?  Where is Lily!”

Dean growled, fished the papers out of his jeans, and shoved them at the demon before sprinting up the stairs to the third floor.

“If you survive, meet me across the street!” followed him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully being more than one scene long and more than doubling the word count makes up for slow writing? :D
> 
> I have a question: responding to y'all's (super amazing and appreciated) comments seems to artificially inflate my comment counter, which feels like cheating :/ Should I not respond? Is there a different way to do so? Let me know, please~~
> 
> Comments make my day and concrit is always welcome!


	4. Hunted, pt. 2

“Not talking to the police, Hosehead?”

Dean’s approach faltered for a second out of surprise.  He regarded the demon, who was focused on some kind of palmpilot.

“Did you just make a Transformers reference?” Dean asked.  The demon just ticked up its eyebrows in a mild challenge, still not sparing Dean a glance.  “Why wouldn’t I be Inferno?”

It sighed and slid its device into a pocket in its dark blue suit jacket.  It cocked its head towards the fire fighters still bustling around across the street. “They’re Inferno.”  It looked down at Dean.  “You’re Hosehead.”  He was pretty sure he was being insulted.  “On that note, exhale.”

“What? Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Dean glared to convey exactly how he felt about the vague and mysterious shtick, but exhaled.  It was probably only a lifetime of following orders that kept him from inhaling in surprise when the demon grabbed his hand.  For the second time that day, Dean’s sight blacked out and he was inundated with static.

“Aaaand inhale.”

Dean yanked his hand out of the first handholding he’d done since high school and bent over in anticipation of actually throwing up this time.  Huh.

“Better?”

Dean looked up at it and conceded with a grunt.  He waited another breath to make sure he was good before he straightened up and took stock.  The demon had some balls—it’d…whatever’d them straight to a booth in the back of the diner from before.  The poor staff here probably thought they were going insane, three people had disappeared and about an hour later two of them reappeared out of thin air.

The demon slid into one side and Dean scanned the diner as he slid in opposite.  Incredibly, no one was paying any attention to them.  Was that part of its powers or something?  Or were civilians honestly that oblivious?

“So. Dean.”

He snapped his focus on the demon.  It had an odd expression and its hands clasped in front of it. This seemed familiar—why was it familiar?

“Holy crap. Is this a performance review?”

It flashed a small, cold smile.  “Maybe you’re not so hopeless after all.”

“Jesus.”  Dean ran a hand through his hair and leaned back.  “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? I should’ve been more cautious; it’s just…she seemed so freaked out, y’know?”

Its only response was a bland stare.  Then a waitress popped up, thumbing through her notepad to a blank page.

“So sorry, boys! I didn’t even see you two come in! What can I get you?”

The demon turned to her with a borderline shy smile and soft eyes.  “It’s okay, ma’am.  I’ll take some coffee and a salad, house dressing on the side, please.”

The waitress looked a little dazed and Dean probably looked a hell of a lot worse because it had somehow turned the gigantic, sharp meatsuit into a puppy of a young man.  Exactly the kind of thing women of their waitress’ age just ate up.  What the fuck was happening.

A much less terrifying version of the lascivious smile the demon had given Dean the other day spread over the waitress’ face.  “Sure thing, dear, anything you want.”  She turned to Dean.  “And you?”

“Coffee, a cheeseburger, fries, the works.”  She didn’t even blink.

“You got it.  You boys need anything,” she told the demon, “my name’s Dorothea, just holler, sweetie.”

The demon fucking beamed at her and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the waitress had actually swooned at those dimples.  “Thank you, Dorothea.”

She winked and the demon watched as she honest-to-god sashayed away.

The demon turned back to Dean, all boyish charm jarringly dropped.  “If we weren’t good actors no one would ever make deals.”

“You were plenty your asshole self with Evan from what I heard.”

“Evan had already dealt, was trying to shirk, and couldn’t even be assed to actually read the summoning correctly.  I’m genuinely annoyed that he’s not being dismembered and fed to himself right now.”

Dean’s stomach churned a little.  Jesus.  “Poor you.”

“Poor me more because Lily’s house was ablaze too.  I’d say it’s a safe bet she’s dead.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Yup.  So I need you to actually take this seriously.  If I tell you to be careful because Specials are dangerous and allude to there being others that are a demon, you need to actually be fucking careful.  Not that that matters because it appears there’s only two worth mentioning left.”

“…Is that a good thing?”

It shrugged.  “It was pretty much inevitable.  We were supposed to kill each other in a more organized fashion, more Battle Royale.”

“That’s organized?”

“I need to know what else Ava knows.”

Dean sighed and slouched back into the underpadded vinyl seat.  “Like I said, supposed premonition of me being tied up, with a black guy and you talking about something, or something like that.  I showed her the papers, asked if she recognized any of them.”

The demon pulled the papers out of its suit jacket with a smirk.  “I’d say.  She’s probably responsible for the demise of at least half of them.  Anything else? Anything more specific about me?”

“I don’t think so.  She was probably lying anyway, though, right?”

It gave a little hum as it looked over the list of names and deaths.  “Not necessarily.  She does actually get prophetic dreams, and the thing about prophesies is that if they’re real they’re basically inevitable, so either way it’s no use stressing over them.”

“I guess.”

It flipped to the page of parameters, where Samuel Winchester topped the list, and smirked.  “Greenville, huh? Maybe I should go pay my respects.”

How _dare_ it.  His dad was one thing, but it was going to be a dick about his dead baby brother?  The demon glanced up at the lack of response and its eyebrows shot up.

“Oooor not.  Jesus, calm down.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“Maybe later, when you haven’t so recently fucked things up.  Wouldn’t want to reinforce bad behavior.”

Dean’s fury was shortsheeted by it insinuating that it was okay with bottoming.  Just…unexpected.  Not that Dean was thinking about anything like that, let alone enough to expect or read into anything.

Their waitress was back and was much more careful with setting coffee down than Dean’s last waitress.  “Here you two go.  Your food should be out in a few, okay?”

The demon’s smile was smaller than before, but definitely flirtier. “Thank you, Dorothea.”  The poor woman actually blushed.

Dean waited until she was out of earshot again.  “Yes, I fucked up.  Believe me, I get it.  But maybe I wouldn’t have if you ever gave me actually useful information!  Like, say, ‘if you meet a chipmunk-faced brunette named Ava, she’s a demon bitch, run for your fuckin’ life’ rather than ‘not all are demons’.”

A prick of discomfort rose in Dean as he watched the demon enjoy its first sip of coffee a little too much.  He glanced over to the counter to see if it was for Dorothea’s sake, but she was busy chatting with yet another waitress.  Dean was dragged out of vague musings on the most efficient ratios of waitstaff to customers by the demon scraping its mug over spilled sugar (or at least Dean assumed, because surely it’d be having some trouble if that were salt) towards the napkin dispenser.

“So what I’m hearing, basically, is that you’d like the name and physical description of the latest meatsuit for every demon that you might encounter while on this suicide mission.  Y’know, rather than put any effort into your own survival.”  It tilted its head and took on a sarcastically accommodating tone, “Would you like Azazel’s home phone number, too?  We could skip all of this, get you killed lickety-split.  Spare you the suspense.”

What a dick.

“Azazel?  Like Mystique’s baby daddy?”

It looked surprised and for a split second Dean felt irrationally triumphant.  It was short lived when the demon’s expression turned snide.  “What, Daddy Dearest didn’t even tell you that much?  You never asked him what Yellow Eyes’ real name was?”

Dean blinked rapidly and shifted forward.  “I…I didn’t think he knew.”

“Have to know that in order to summon a specific demon, whether through a generic summoning or to find the one that’s tailored for that demon, like what’s on your phone for me.  He might not have known before he was possessed, I’ll give you that, but Yellow Eyes was all too happy to chat while riding him.  Or so the asshole told me.”

“Wha—what else has he told you?”  His heart felt like it was in his throat.  It hadn’t really clicked until right now that this demon had interacted with Yellow Eyes—fuck, had basically been raised by the son of a bitch.  If there was any opportunity for insider info, this asshole was it.

Said asshole was giving him a cool, assessing stare while it drank its coffee.  It set the empty mug down with slow, deliberate movement and said, “I think we’ll stick with the need-to-know-basis for now, Dean.”

His brainstorming for a sound protest was interrupted by Dorothea bringing their food.  She promised to be right back with more coffee and rewarded the demon’s smile with a brush of her hand across its jacket sleeve.  Dean kept his focus zeroed in on his food until Dorothea came and went again—his skin was going to start crawling if he witnessed anymore flirting.

When the coast was clear, Dean looked up with his mouth open to pick up the conversation, but he was prompted derailed when it registered what was happening across the table.

“Salad?!  You’ve got a hard-on for torture but you eat _salad_?  Why are you eating in the first place?”

“This is a growing body, Dean, needs fuel Topside.  And do you have any idea how much salt is in most food up here?”  Its nose scrunched up.  “It’s in basically everything.”

Dean was fighting a grin.  It hadn’t really occurred to him that demons could be hurt by the average French fry.  Awesome.  He was half tempted to sacrifice one of his fries just to see what happened.  “What about pie?”

The look that the demon gave him from under its lashes made Dean very uncomfortable.  Like, something wiggling in the vicinity of his diaphragm uncomfortable.  Demons shouldn’t be able to look affectionate.

“I’ve been told any decent crust requires salt.  So, yes, even pie.”

“Oh.”

He went back to his laser-focus on his food, at a total loss.  They ended up eating in silence only made slightly less awkward by the noises of the other patrons and the kitchen.  Dean’s head was filled with that annoying fog of too many racing thoughts and being unable to really get a grasp on any of them.  They all took a backseat to mild dread when Dorothea reappeared to take their plates and pass them the check.

“You can pay up front,” she dipped slightly and slipped something into the demon’s jacket pocket, holding eye contact with it the whole time.  “Or I can take care of you whenever, darlin’.”  She sashayed away again and Dean honestly had to admire her brazenness.

“Well, if I ever need cougar bait I’ll give you a call.” 

It shot him a smirk just this side of bitchy.  “Don’t sell yourself so short.”  It shifted in the booth and pulled its jacket closed.  “Alright, I have things to take care of.  Try not to get kidnapped before I get back.”

And then it was gone.

Dean glanced around and sighed—maybe if civilians were remotely aware of their surroundings he wouldn’t have to save so many of their asses.  And then he sighed again when he realized the demon hadn’t left any money.

* * *

Five minutes later found Dean back in his hotel room.  It’d be several hours before any bar would have enough of a crowd for a hustle to be worth it, which left channel surfing or research.  Great.

Five hours later found it twilight outside and Dean with no real progress compared to before.  Aside from a comic book character, Azazel could be anything from a literal goat to the person who tempted Eve, it seemed.  Neither of those were of any particular use.

Dean heaved a sigh and shut his laptop.  He tapped his phone against it for a few moments, considering.  Might as well.

“Hello?”

It was kind of silly to be relieved to hear someone answer the phone like a normal person, but there it was.  “Hey, Bobby.  What are you up to?”

“Oh, you know.  Saving half the hunting community’s skin, business as usual.  Is this a social call for once or do you want something?”

“You wound me.”  Dean smiled.  “But since you asked…”

“Yeah, yeah.  Spit it out, kid.”

He hunched down in his chair.  “You know anything about a demon called Azazel?”

The sounds of Bobby humming in thought and scratching his beard were loud over the line and Dean was hit with a bizarre feeling of homesickness.

“Nothing comes to mind, but my books ain’t for show.  You need it for your current hunt or can it wait a little?”

Dean hesitated despite the flare of urgency that’d been impressed on him by his dad.  “It’s important, but no one’s life is immediately at stake as far as I know.”

“I’ll see what I can do, then.”  There was a pause.  “Haven’t seen you in a while, boy.  You being careful out there?”

“You know the job, Bobby.”

“That don’t answer the question.  I already lost your daddy this year, I don’t need you being a damn fool and getting yourself killed too.”

_Again_ , Dean mentally filled in.  “No, I hear you.”

“You better _heed_ me,” came the gruff correction, and Dean smiled again.  “Swing up here sometime soon, yeah?  Got a couple engines that are being more stubborn than usual.”

He grinned.  “Ten bucks says it’s less the engines and more you getting old.”

Bobby scoffed.  “If you make it to my age you’ll be lucky to be doing half as good as me.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

There were a couple beats of companionable silence.

“Well, alright, I’ll look into this Azazel character and get back to you.  See you soon?”

“Yeah, Bobby.  Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Dean had barely hung up when a knock came from the door.  His sigh caught on a yawn.  Well, shit, he really should have taken a nap after a couple hours of bupkis.  He hefted himself up and whaddya know there was a demon at the door.  With a mysterious duffel bag.  Dean probably shouldn’t verbalize that it was holding the bag in a way strikingly similar to Ava with her purse.

He started walking back to the table but turned back when it registered that the demon hadn’t moved.  It wasn’t a vampire, what—

It flicked a meaningful glance from Dean, to the salt line, and back.

Oh.  _Oh_.  Dean really should have taken that nap.  He hesitated and looked up at the demon. "…What happens if I don't?"

The demon studied his face to gauge his seriousness.  Then it raised an arm and leaned into the doorjamb, head tilted and looking uncomfortably like it was in a porno exposition scene.  “If you move a muscle or interrupt before I finish, I will follow through regardless, understand?”

Dean grit his teeth but nodded.

A slip of paper was pulled out of a pocket.  “Nice lady, Dorothea,” it stated to the paper, and Dean was sure as fuck wide awake now.  He sucked in a huge, bracing inhale and stayed stock fucking still.  “She’ll barely hesitate to come pick up the nice young man from earlier, especially after he starts crying while explaining how his big brother kicked him out.  It’ll take barely any effort at all to get invited into her house, and then into her bed.”

Dean’s pulse was so loud in his ears he almost couldn’t hear the soft threats, and he was pretty sure he was trembling.  He didn’t dare look away when the demon made eye contact.  Shit, that intense amusement was back.

“After I fuck her, I'll torture her within an inch of her life, and then slip her past that inch so subtly that she won’t even have the relief of knowing that it’s over.  I’ll take my time to really enjoy it, so I’ll be back here say 2 or 3 in the morning and use her blood to disrupt your cute little salt line and come in anyway.  If you try to stop me, the only thing you’ll change is that I’ll make. you. watch.  If you try to run I’ll just bring you her head.  It’s all up to you, Dean.”  It smiled, showing off boyish dimples.  “What’ll it be?"

Dean nearly tripped himself in his haste to break the salt line.  The demon's mien was horrifyingly casual as it walked in and Dean needed to stop forgetting how fucked up the SOB was.

"She's penciled in for Upstairs, if it’s any consolation."

“Yeah, it’s really not.”  He closed the door and stared at the scattered salt.  Should he remake the line with the demon inside?  What was the cost-benefit of keeping the demon in but keeping other possible demons out?

Dean just about had a heart attack when the demon pressed up behind him and wrapped its arms under his collarbones like a scarf.  Was—was it _hugging_ him?  What the _fuck_.  Its girly hair trailed over Dean’s cheek as it turned its gaze away from the salt line to whisper in his ear, “I’m getting tired of repeating myself, Dean.  Do not interfere with where I can go, do I make myself clear?”  It started tightening its arms around him and Dean started tipping into panic mode.  “No traps, no salt lines, no warding.”  An arm settled snug against Dean’s Adam’s apple, just shy of a choke hold.  “This is your last warning.”

Anger bubbled up in Dean and he turned his head to glare at it, which put their faces way too close together.  “What, so I’m supposed to not be a moron and keep myself alive but also not protect myself as little as I can?  Salt lines are kinda the bare minimum, asshole.”

The demon smiled at him, looking genuinely pleased, which just pissed Dean off more.  “I come bearing gifts.”  It slid away from him and returned to where its duffel was open next to his laptop.  Dean spared the salt line one last glance before walking over.  He was handed something in newspaper, taped haphazardly closed with the object free to move and shift balance.  He was careful with unwrapping because this was a demon who just threatened to torture a middle-aged woman because Dean hesitated on letting it in the room.  Who knew what this thing was.

It…was a charm.  Dean didn’t touch it, just in case.  “What is it?”

“Anti-possession charm.  Keep it somewhere close, preferably somewhere that you’ll notice quickly if someone tries or succeeds in taking it.”

Should he say thank you?

No.  Fuck this asshole.  In a purely figurative sense.

A stack of books thumped onto the table surface and the demon opened one to a beige-ribbon-bookmarked page and gestured for Dean to look.  The pages looked ancient and the ink was faded, but a drawing of the same symbol as the charm was there clear as day and the description in Latin was still legible.  He wasn’t sure how to feel about the demon predicting that he wouldn’t take it at its word and bringing a friggin’ book to support its claim.

Dean hesitated for a long moment while the demon was still rummaging around.  He reached up and brought his leather necklace up over his head.  He weighed the silver ring in his palm before he started undoing the knot in the cord.  He hadn’t tried to put it on since his dad first gave it to him a decade ago—it had been too big back then, and he hadn’t tried since.  Oh.  It fit.

Dean schooled his face, lest the demon pick up on the emotional skirmish.  He threaded the leather through the eyelet set perpendicular to the charm and redid the knot.  The charm wasn’t much bigger than the ring and was comfortably flat against his chest.  People were going to start thinking he was a witch, though, if they saw it.  Or some New Age douchebag.

He looked up at the demon and was startled to find it staring at him, at the charm, with a look that suggested a depth of emotion that Dean was pretty sure demons weren’t capable of.  It was really fucking uncomfortable, possibly even more so than the threatening hug, and thankfully his fake cough snapped the demon out of its daze.

“Right.  Even better,” it held up a pen, signaling him to pay attention.  Dean watched in growing confusion as it sketched out a devil’s trap from the inside out onto a piece of blank paper.  It was very careful to hold the pencil at a distance so it didn’t get caught when it closed the outermost circle and completed the seal.

And then it plopped its hand smack in the middle.  Dean, dumbass that he was, reached out instinctively to stop it from doing so, but was too late.

“Watch.”  The demon held the paper in place with his other hand and demonstrated that his drawing hand was not able to leave the trap.  Dean had never considered that he didn’t need to trap the whole demon in order to keep it in place.  Then the demon used the pen still in its grasp to draw something in the white space of the trap—and then lifted the hand away.

“What the fuck?”  Dean grabbed the paper and stared.  The addition looked an awful like the symbol on the picture in Dean’s phone with some fancy stuff around it.  “How did you—what is—?”

The demon clicked the pen smugly.  “One thing Earth and Hell have in common is that librarians are vastly underappreciated.  Did you know that thanks to a couple dozen demon deals, Hell has an almost complete collection from the Library of Alexandria?”

“What?”  Dean couldn’t compute that the demon apparently had a hard-on for torture, was a creepy motherfucker, and also ate salad and was possibly a book nerd.  How was this his life?  “Tell me about _this_ ,” he shook the paper for emphasis, “not old libraries!”

“Old libraries are part of why you’re still alive, ingrate,” it grumbled, then snatched the paper.  “Basically, it’s a way to make an exception within the trap.  So this would work on every demon in the cosmos except for the one designated by the added sigil, which in this case is mine.”  It pulled a lighter out of its duffel and set the paper on fire.  “We should keep this on the DL, otherwise traps will become useless for any demon that knows their sigil.  Buuuuut this means that you can ward your stuff against other demons as long as I supervise and make sure you don’t fuck it up.”

“Wow.”  Dean barely kept back a comment about how the demon had seemed to like his handiwork before—that was way too close to flirting back to be allowed past his lips.

“Don’t misunderstand.  I have every faith in your competence, I’ve seen your work.  I mean fuck it up on purpose.”

“What, and risk you taking it as an invite to go torture middle-aged women?”

It grinned at him.  “Attaboy.  You’re catching on.”

Dean resisted the urge to kick something and threw himself back into his chair instead.  He gestured to the duffel.  “You got anything else in your bag of tricks?”

“As a matter of fact I do.”  It brought out a tube that looked like what Dean had seen blueprints come out of on TV, but rather than paper, it pulled out something that looked an awful lot like a yoga mat he’d become very familiar with over one of the best weeks of his life.  The demon unrolled it and sure enough it was a mat made out of something really weird that looked not unlike a slab of rock.  “I will permit salt at other entry points as long as this alone is at the main entrance and you don’t sabotage it.”

“Your generosity astounds, truly,” Dean snarked back automatically.  “What the hell is it?”

“It’s got wards woven into it, all including my sigil as an exception.”

“I don’t see any wards.”

“Your attention to detail isn’t limited to your magic, I see.”

The teasing had an edge of flirtation and Dean bristled.  ‘Magic.’  Like he was a goddamn witch or something.

“They’re there, I saw it tested myself.  It won’t affect you at all, so just be careful to not scuff it too much or knock it out of place.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.  Just put it down, I guess.”

It gave him a deadpan expression.  “Right.  On top of all that salt.”

Dean glanced behind himself and groaned.  He ran a hand over his face.  Really should have taken that nap.

“Fuck—fine!  I’m getting some food and I’ll get a broom or something from the lobby on the way back.”

Dean stalled with his jacket half-on when he realized he was about to ask it if it wanted something from wherever he got food.  Fuck that, the demon could get its own fucking food, what the fuck was wrong with Dean for even thinking of offering—

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

The demon didn’t respond, just kept reading one of the books it’d brought, settled in the chair across from where Dean had been sitting.

Great.

Dean tugged his jacket again and patted his pockets and left.

He made it a whopping six blocks on foot before there was a quick shuffle behind him and a sharp pain in the back of his head and he was out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert real-life excuses that don't matter]
> 
> The next chapter is already written, but it's significantly angstier and heavier than this one, so I wanted to separate it. After that, I'll probably put this fic on hiatus. I'm a slow writer, I got a major wincest femslash abo fic to finish, and after next chapter comes serious canon divergence that I'll have to sort out. If anyone would like to volunteer as a soundboard, I'd surely appreciate it :)
> 
> Kudos, comments, and concrit are all welcomed and make my day! <3 Thank you for reading


	5. Hunted, pt. 3

It was Gordon.   Of fucking course it was.

Dean barely suppressed a pained groan as he glanced around.  Ramshackle dump, probably middle of nowhere, solidly after sunset.  Gordon was messing with something on the table in the middle of the room, so Dean tested his bindings as hard as he could.

He must have made some kind of noise because Gordon, his back still to Dean, chirped, “Mornin’, sunshine.”

Dean did groan this time.  “So I know I’m not exactly your favorite person, but kidnapping?  Really? It’s a bit heavy handed, even for you.”

Gordon glanced at him over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised.  “What, you think this is revenge?”

“Well, yeah.  I did leave you tied up in your own mess for what?  Two days?”

He turned back to rooting around in what looked to be a duffel bag.  “Three.”

Dean forced out a bark of laughter, then pretended to demur.  “Sorry.  I shouldn’t laugh.”

Gordon hummed, apparently not buying it.  “I’m not saying I’m not going to do the same to you when I’m done here, but this is about something a lot bigger than some personal revenge.”

“Do tell.”  Just like in an action movie: keep them talking.  Dean pulled on the rope holding his wrists together.  He hadn’t been awake enough to tense up while being bound so that they’d have some give now, but he’d figure it out anyway.  He just needed to keep this asshole distracted.

Said asshole turned to face him, tucking something into his shirt pocket, and sized Dean up.  He picked up a rifle and took a few steps to lean against a pillar that gave him a good view of Dean and put the empty doorways in his periphery.  Dean didn’t like the whole having-a-rifle thing.  He wouldn’t be in good shape if it was used against him, and the demon had said its meatsuit was still alive, which meant a civilian could be hurt if Gordon got trigger-happy.

“I was doing an exorcism down in Louisiana,” Gordon started.  Dean kept trying to work the rope around his wrists.  “Teenage girl, seemed like just some low-level demon.  But between all the jabbering and head-spinning, the damn thing muttered something interesting.  Something about a coming war.  I don’t think it meant to, it just kind of slipped out—too late, though, because my interest was piqued.  And you can really make a demon talk, you got the right tools.”

“And the girl it was possessing?”

That got a cold smile.  “She didn’t make it.”

“You’re a fucking son of a bitch, y’know that?”

Gordon’s face went stony before he strode over and slapped Dean.  “That’s my momma you’re talking about.”

Dean glowered at Gordon’s back as he returned to his post.  “Oh, yeah, and I bet she’s so proud of you, too.  _Both_ kids turned into monsters.”

A tiny shiver of apprehension went through Dean at the cool stare Gordon leveled at him.  Shit, he was going to get himself shot.

“You’re one to talk, Winchester.  Cuz, see, this demon starts telling me about there being soldiers who are going to fight in this war.  Humans, fightin’ on hell’s side.”  Gordon gave an incredulous laugh.  “You believe that?  I mean, mostly psychics, so not exactly pure humans, but still.”  The stare turned intense.  “What kind of worthless scumbag have you got to be to turn against your own race?  And then the biggest kick in the ass: demon said there were _hunters_ in on this.  You and your daddy.”  Gordon cocked the rifle.  “Made any demon deals lately, Dean?”

Fuck.  Dean forced out a laugh and tugged harder on his restraints.  “Gordy, this is…this is a whole new level of gullible.”

“Oh yeah?  So you haven’t been running into psychics left and right and keeping it to yourself?  Your baby brother wasn’t one of them and your daddy didn’t make a deal with the same demon y’all swore revenge against?  You’re not working for one of the leaders?  I know everything, Dean.”

Dean’s chest was getting tight under the rope.  Gordon was wrong about the leader thing, at least, though, so maybe he wasn’t totally fucked.  Shit, who was he kidding.

“You know everything?  Really?  Because a demon told you?  And demons never lie, right?”

“This one wasn’t.  I did my homework, made damn sure it checked out.  Look, you’ve got your Roadhouse connections, I got mine.  It’s how I found you in the first place.”

No one in the Roadhouse knew about the demon, though, so Gordon was trusting _someone_ infernal—

Dean’s phone chose right then to start ringing and glow bright in the gloom of the burnt-out house.   Gordon moved to pick it up and Dean yanked hard at the ropes.  Fuck him, but Gordon was decent at his job.

Gordon walked over to him and showed him the illuminated asterisk.

“This your demon boyfriend?”

“I don’t know about ‘boyfriend,’ I mean I barely know the g—” Gordon shoved the opened phone against the side of Dean’s face.

Sure enough, before Dean could say anything, the demon’s bored voice came through, “Surely it doesn’t take you this long to find food.  Did you get kidnapped already?”

“Yup.”

“Well that didn’t take long.  Where are you?”

Gordon held up a pad with an address and Dean read it out.

“Ava there?”

Dean looked up at Gordon, who just looked a little confused.  “Not unless she hopped bodies.”

“Alright. Sit tight and try not to get killed.”

“You know me.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it.”

Dean scowled.  He was getting tired of the death wish jabs.

The line went dead and Gordon tossed the phone onto the rickety table behind him.

“Who’s Ava?”

Dean leaned back and set his shoulders.  He tilted his head and sized Gordon up.  He seemed unsure and was trying to hide it.

“I’m kinda starting to think she’s your boss.”

“Don’t have a boss.”

“Your informant, then, maybe.  Someone tell you to disrupt a salt line in an apartment lately?  Maybe someone about 5-5, buck twenty soaking wet, brunette?”

Gordon didn’t say anything.  Dean didn’t need him to.

“Sorry to knock you off your high horse, Gordy, but looks like I ain’t the only one in this room in cahoots with a demon.  I mean, you heard it, right?  We already knew you were going to kidnap me—who would know about that besides a demon, a psychic, or someone playing you?  In this case, three in one.  What, she tell you about how she’s been killing psychics left and right?  I bet she played it off as eliminating threats against humankind, but left out how it was eliminating her competition.  There’s some serious shit going down, but I don’t know about any army.  All _I_ know is I’m still saving lives and I’m going to kill the son of a bitch behind all this.”

“Like I’m going to trust some demon’s bitch.”

“Pot, kettle, black.”  Dean shrugged as much as he could.  “Doesn’t matter.  She set you up.  Do you even have a plan for when it gets here?”  He made a show of looking around the room.  “I mean, I don’t even see a trap.  No salt.  I genuinely thought you were smarter than this, man.”

Gordon pulled a bandana from the duffel and approached.  Dean tried to bite him, but it just got him another smack upside his still fuckin’ _sore_ head.  The bandana pulled tight enough that it hurt his cheeks—he just snarled and jerked at the rope binding his ankles.  Gordon traded his gun for a machete and a book, setting Dean’s mind to go a mile a minute.

No gun was good, but a machete combined with Gordon’s skill set could take the giant meatsuit’s head clean off.  Also, presumably that book was for an exorcism, and Dean didn’t imagine that the demon would be terribly pleased when it crawled its way back up.  Then again, Dean wasn’t exactly going to miss the fucked-up son of a bitch.

Speaking of.

A look of surprise flashed over Gordon’s face when the demon strolled in.  Guess he’d had some boobytrapping that hadn’t panned out.

The demon glanced around the room and settled on Dean.  It jerked its chin up in greeting.  “Hey.”

Hey?!  He was tied to a fucking ch— _hey_?!  Dean tried to gripe through the cloth and tugged on his bonds futilely for a split second before Gordon snapped out of his surprise.

Rapid-fire Latin filled the air, an exorcism that Dean didn’t know, and the demon’s eyes flickered black for a split second.

“Oh no, stop, it tickles,” it drawled.

That shut Gordon up real quick.  He tossed the book aside and reached for whatever was in his shirt pocket and a moment later splashed holy water over the approaching demon.  It hissed in tandem with the steam curling off, but didn’t even actually flinch.  Gordon tossed the little container away and put both hands on his machete like it was a sword.  Dean was having a flashback to the first time he’d met the demon—if he’d tried to exorcize it that night, he may not have been alive enough to possibly die this night.

“What the fuck are you?”  Dean almost grunted a seconding of the question.

The demon waved and Gordon’s machete and rifle went flying across the room.  “A Special snowflake,” it responded.

Dean rolled his eyes, exasperation replacing fear.  A pun?  Really?  And now what was it doing—oh.

Gordon was levitating about two inches off the ground, limbs splayed out slightly and trembling from how tense he was.  The demon walked over behind Dean and the bonds loosened.  Dean shot out of the chair and tugged the bandana down around his neck.

“Why the hell did it take you so long?  You been zapping to me from who knows where in a second.”

The demon waved again and Gordon collided harshly with the chair, somehow not breaking it.

“I was scoping it out, checking for Ava.”  It ticked its head again and Dean picked up the rope that’d fallen from his wrists and started tying Gordon down.

“Gotta theory about that.  I think she talked this asshole into messing up the salt line in that guy’s apartment.”

Dean finished the knots and stepped over next to the demon to regard Gordon.

“That true?”

“Like fuck I would tell y—” The demon clenched its fist and Gordon screamed.

“Wrong answer.”

Dean fished for dregs of pity or guilt as Gordon spit blood to the side.  Nope, none to speak of.  Oh well.

“C’mon, Gordy.  You wanna stop demons, right?  The one you’re buddy-buddy with has been killing kids and stuff, man.”

“Psychic children.  Abominations,” Gordon corrected.

The demon shifted next to him and Dean got the fleeting, ridiculous impression that its feelings were hurt or something.

Gordon apparently had the same thought and jumped on the possibility of a weakness.  He turned his full attention to the demon and dropped all pretense of ignorance.  “She told me about a leader.  You’re Sammy, right?”

Dean flinched—from the name, and from the vivid memory of the demon’s comments on said name.  When he glanced over, the demon’s eyes were black and staying that way for once.

It smiled and held up a peace sign. What—?  “Two things,” it started, and yeah that made a lot more sense.  “One, only he gets to call me that,” it declared, tilting its head towards Dean.  He felt a weird little burst of triumph and pride, which was immediately overwhelmed by a flood of _what the fuck was that_.

The demon was ignorant of Dean’s inner crisis and started slowly advancing on Gordon, who was smirking.

“And second, I’d start talking if I were you.  Because I have been geared up and cockblocked from torture twice in the past 24 Topside hours, so I’m a little antsy.  Not so antsy, though, to make me rush if third time is the charm.  I’m thinking some lacerations in very sensitive places, maybe some broken extremities and ribs, splinters of bone stuck inside joints, pretty standard stuff.”  It stopped behind Gordon, put its hands on his shoulders, and leaned down to whisper, “Then, I’ll vivisect you.  It’s pretty chilly out tonight, very unHellish, so that first slash down your torso?” It brushed a hand down the center of said torso.  Gordon’s snarl was ignored.  “You’ll _steam_.  Then I’ll start cutting pieces of you out, see how much blood and tissue you can lose before you go to your assigned rack where one of our artists will pick up where I left off.”

“Oookay, cowboy, I think that’s about enough of that.”  Dean was leaning against the mostly-intact table, gun in hand, retrieved and double checked from where Gordon had stashed it in the duffel.  He jerked his gun to the side a couple times, aimed at the floor, to gesture the demon to step away from the prisoner.

Surprisingly, it went with the directive and joined Dean, smirking.

“So, feeling chatty?”  He wasn’t really holding out hope.  Gordon was a tough son of a bitch, and he wouldn’t have made it so far in the business if he scared easy.

“Oh, I sure am.”  The sarcasm didn’t bode well.  “I get out of here, I’m gonna be real chatty with every hunter I come across; tell them all about whatever this fucked up thing is going on between you two.  Maybe I didn’t recognize that girl as a demon and did some shit—that’s incompetence, just means I need to get better at the job.  But you’re _knowingly_ working with one of the parasites.  And I have to say, the fact that it listened to you does not look good.”  Gordon rolled his head like he was stretching in preparation for a fight.  “If I don’t kill you, someone else will.  Or I could do it right now and you can still go out with a shred of dignity.  I won’t even tell anyone you were a traitor.”

The demon gave a snarky laugh.  “You’re talking awful big for someone tied to a chair with a demon in the room you can’t even exorcise.”

“Near as I can tell, you’re less the powerful leader I was led to think and more of Winchester’s pet.  And he doesn’t have the guts to kill a human, by his own hand or by proxy.”

Dean’s racing thoughts were doing a decent impression of cicadas on a summer afternoon, which drowned out the rest of the other two’s shit-talking while he thought.

Until Gordon screamed, at least.  Dean was snapped back to reality in time to see the demon toss something to the side.  It stepped back and Dean took in Gordon’s bloody, bared teeth and then the seriously disgusting mess where his left pinky used to be.  It was a far cry from a clean cut and Dean actually didn’t see a knife anywhere.  Did—did the demon _rip_ it off?  What the motherfucking _fuck_?

He turned an incredulous stare to the demon, who just shrugged at him.

“He can still talk,” it defended.

He ran a hand over his face.  It was like a child.  A sadistic, infernal, 6-foot-something petulant child.  He took a deep breath and focused on Gordon’s face.  “You’re seriously not going to tell me anything?  Not even when you know that bitch was a demon?”  Gordon spat and sneered.  Dean sighed.  “I’m really not the bad guy here, Gordon; I’m after the big bads just as much as you.”

“I think you need to take a long, hard look in the mirror, Winchester.”

“One last chance.”

In his periphery, he saw the demon look at him curiously.

Gordon just grinned.  “Go fuck yourself.”

Right.  Okay.  In a few smooth, quick motions, Dean racked his pistol’s slide and shot Gordon in the head and heart.

The demon was crowded over Gordon before his head even stopped falling, and Dean thumbed the safety in place and started gathering Gordon’s things.

“I thought it was ‘one last chance’ before you grudgingly handed him over to me,” the demon turned back towards Dean and held eye contact, back to hazel.  “He’d have ruined your plans, gotten in the way of eliminating Yellow Eyes, maybe even gotten you killed by some human.  Still, I thought you’d try to get away with just setting him up for jail time or cursing him or something.”  A look close to awe fell over its face.  “But you straight up killed him.  While he was tied to a chair.” Dean really didn’t want to know what that look in its eyes meant.  So of course the demon told him.  “Say the word and I’ll blow you right here.”

Dean’s stomach had been roiling already, but it lurched at that.  He kept his face blank as he tossed salt and then a lighter from Gordon’s duffel onto his corpse.  Then he hefted the duffel and held out a hand towards the demon, who had just been watching him with glittering eyes.  “What I’d actually really like is if you’d zap me back to the motel room and then leave me alone for a while.  It’s been a long day.”  He should probably be a little more respectful or what-the-fuck-ever with something that could easily kill him in about a million different ways, but there just wasn’t enough room in him for fear right then.

The demon’s expression mellowed and it took his hand.  Dean purposely didn’t exhale before his world became static.

The second his feet registered solid ground again, Dean dropped the duffel and staggered to the bathroom.  He barely got the toilet seat up before he was expelling his brunch.  Everything the demon had said was true.  And sure, Gordon had been a class-A asshole; and sure, Dean wouldn’t have been able to fend the demon off if it was determined to torture said asshole.  But Gordon had still been _human_.  Still tied to a chair.  Still killed mostly as a matter of convenience.

Murdered.

Dean was down to dry heaving when white noise finally overtook spiraling thoughts.  After a solid five minutes of no retching, he got up to rinse his mouth.  He needed to be at least 200 miles away by sunrise just in case people came looking for Gordon, so he needed to get gone.  It wasn’t until he went to grab his laptop that he realized that the demon had left its things.

And not just its things.

Two crumpled bullets were sitting innocently in the space between the demon’s bag and Dean’s laptop.  He vaguely registered that they were clean, which seemed unusual for a demon that got off on gore, before he kicked one of the chairs as hard as he could.  He fisted his hands in his hair and yanked and the suffocating feeling in his chest didn’t budge a goddamn inch.  He didn’t have _time_ for a breakdown.

Ten minutes later, he was on a highway with two extra duffels in his baby and no idea where he was going except that it wouldn’t be Bobby’s.  As much as Dean wanted the comfort of the closest he got to a childhood home, he had no right to drag Bobby into any of this mess, and no right to use him as an emotional crutch because Dean had—had murdered someone.

His breath started coming short but panic attacks and driving do not mix well.  He jammed a cassette in the tape deck and turned it up until he could feel the bass in his bones.

_Eeeexit light_

_Eeenter night_

At least 200 miles, then he was going to get incredibly, dangerously drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, going on hiatus for now while working out canon divergence! Feel free to check out my other stuff, just be sure to read the tags!!
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day and concrit is welcomed! Thanks for reading~~


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